


then tell them i'm yours

by chainofclovers



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27481123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainofclovers/pseuds/chainofclovers
Summary: Something better waits in the wings. She just knows it, and at the same time she totally doesn’t.
Relationships: Frankie Bergstein/Grace Hanson
Comments: 36
Kudos: 98





	then tell them i'm yours

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally just a fanfic about gentle bedsharing. It's been a minute, and I wanted to write something kinda soft. With lowercase song lyrics for a title. :)
> 
> (Also, fuck Donald Trump, fuck fascism, and fuck the GOP! But that's not what this story is about. This story is about snuggling.)

_I've been running circles ‘round a night that never ends_  
_I've been chasing heartache in a city and a friend_  
_I've been with you so long, even seen you lose it, but who cares?_  


— from “Long Time” by Blondie

⁂ 

_We’re gonna make it._

Lately the phrase runs through Frankie’s mind day and night, a constant refrain, and she doesn’t entirely know why. As usual, there are plenty of obstacles, plenty of everyday challenges to contend with—but she has no evidence to back up her brain’s belief that making it through is proof that she’s zooming her way towards some sort of ideal future state. She keeps feeling like the best is yet to come, but she has no idea where the story wants to go. She paints, she makes a lot of money selling vibrators—quarantine works wonders for a business fueled by online shopping and masturbation—and she hangs out with Grace. It should be enough. (She’s hardly the only person slogging through 2020 with a “You are enough” post-it note affixed to her mirror.) It _is_ enough, but it isn’t _only_ enough. Something better waits in the wings. She just knows it, and at the same time she totally doesn’t.

She and Grace make it through months of the pandemic, although it’s far from over. They make it through Nick’s pandemic-truncated rich person’s prison sentence, and through Grace’s decision not to go back to him. They make it through long months with unwanted housemates, and now they’re making it through the surprising melancholy they all feel now that Robert and Sol’s home is repaired and the four of them don’t live together anymore.

The first night after Robert and Sol move out, Frankie peers past Grace’s cracked-open bedroom door. “I’m sad,” she stage-whispers. “Can I sleep in your bed?”

Grace sighs loudly, but she peels down the covers to make room right away. “It’s not like anyone else is.”

Frankie wonders if she should feel insulted at that—at Grace welcoming her into her bed only because no one else is there to take up the space. But it doesn’t feel like Grace is settling for what she can get when she scoots a little closer to Frankie after the lights are off and murmurs a fond goodnight.

Every night following, Grace leaves the bedroom door open—her signal that Frankie is welcome to join her. If Grace is drunk or particularly sleepy or in a good mood, she snuggles up and rests a hand on Frankie’s shoulder as she falls asleep. If she isn’t, she doesn’t touch Frankie but she doesn’t huffily roll away or fall asleep with her back turned, either. We’re gonna make it, Frankie thinks as she lies awake night after night, cuddled or untouched, aware of Grace’s breath slowing down and evening out as she falls asleep or beating her to sleep and fading away before Grace does. We’re gonna make it, she thinks, and sometimes she stays awake long enough to wonder what “it” is.

In the daytime they don’t talk about how—now that Robert and Sol are gone—the only unmasked faces they ever see belong to each other. It’s weird; they don’t have to talk about how weird it is. They avoid making big plans, choosing instead to have increasingly fervent, full-participation conversations about what they’re going to make for dinner, which movie they’re going to stream this weekend but also which movie they’re going to stream the weekend after, which flavor of gummy edibles to add to their Eaze delivery. They approach a new soup recipe with the kind of excitement once reserved for a trip up to LA. They unpack groceries like it’s Christmas morning. And every night, the unspoken agreement to Be Enthusiastic deflates and dissolves into comfortable quiet. 

One night they’re sitting up in bed reading when Grace looks up from her book and stares at Frankie until she notices. Grace is neither drunk nor sleepy, nor does she seem particularly happy. In fact, she looks a little nauseated, a little miserable. “Honey,” Frankie says, “what’s wrong?”

Grace shuts her book—place carefully marked, of course—and sets it on her nightstand. “Nothing’s wrong,” she says. She gulps a breath, and refocuses not on Frankie but on the headboard behind her head. “It’s just—it’s just us, now, and I—I think.” She frowns. “I think it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to be kissed goodnight sometimes.”

It takes everything in Frankie’s power not to squeal or otherwise overreact and topple this moment that’s clearly taken Grace a lot of effort to articulate. Frankie’s own book goes the way of Grace’s, except she’s pretty sure the old receipt she’s managed to hold onto as a bookmark for her last three reads has fallen on the floor and drifted beneath the bed. That doesn't matter. She'd start over from the beginning every night if it meant getting to kiss Grace.

“Oh,” Frankie says softly. At least, she’s pretty sure she’s speaking softly. “And you want me to be the one kissing you,” she adds, just in case she’s horribly misread the situation.

Grace bobs her head. “I probably won’t like it,” she says. “We might only have to do it once.” 

“You sure know how to make a girl feel great about herself,” Frankie says, but she isn't hurt. Grace has pretended to hate all kinds of stuff it turns out she loves.

“Says the woman who shows up in my room because she’s sad.” Grace barrels ahead before Frankie has a chance to clarify. “What I mean is, it probably isn’t something I _actually_ want. I’m probably imagining things. But we ended up here, and every night I lie there wondering _why_. And why every other person who’s kissed me has turned out to be someone I couldn’t trust. Even asking myself that feels so selfish, you know? Because, other than sex or romance or whatever, we have everything we need.” 

Frankie nods. “Yeah. Maslow would be blown away.” Grace rolls her eyes, but none of the worry leaves her expression. Frankie resists the urge to make sure she understands the reference. “You trust me,” she says.

“I do. And you trust me.” 

“I do,” Frankie says. She smiles. “We don’t have to do it again if you don’t like it, but...I think it’s gonna be good.” Personally, she doesn’t need any disclaimers; she already knows she’s going to love it. She scoots a bit closer in bed and reaches across Grace to put a hand on her farthest shoulder. Very gently, she pulls her closer. 

“Now?” Grace squeaks.

“I mean—yeah?”

Grace closes her eyes. Frankie’s heart pounds as she takes her in. She looks at the way Grace looks as she waits to be kissed—as she sits there trusting Frankie will kiss her. The seconds seem to slow down, and Frankie has enough time to look up close at the lines etched around Grace’s eyes and mouth, the softer wrinkles on her chin, the fresh lip balm on her lips even though she took the rest of her makeup off. Maybe she smoothed it over her lips because she knew tonight she would ask for a kiss. Maybe she weighed her options every enthusiastic day, every resigned night. Frankie will never know why she's chosen this one.

Frankie presses her lips against Grace’s. She takes her time to settle in, to let her lips learn Grace’s lips by feel. It’s been a long time since Frankie kissed anyone, but Grace is so much softer than she expected, and so still—not unresponsive or unreceptive, just stuck in place. Frankie moves her lips a little, opens her mouth and feels Grace’s mouth begin to part, and darts her tongue just barely inside. This won’t be their only kiss, she decides. Hopes. Still, she knows she has to make this one good. She teases Grace, taking her tongue away almost as quickly as she started to use it, and Grace whimpers. She unfreezes then. She puts her hand on the back of Frankie’s head and pulls her closer. She tilts her head and flirts with putting her own tongue into Frankie’s mouth. 

When they part, Grace’s cheeks are flushed red in the lamplight. 

“You liked that,” Frankie says lightly. 

Grace nods. Bites her lip in a gesture Frankie’s seen her do a thousand times. This time it sends an excited little pulse of feeling to her stomach. “I did,” Grace says.

“Me too.” 

“Okay.”

“Do you think you liked it because we’re the last remaining people on earth, or do you think you liked it because it was good?”

“Honestly?” Grace says. “I think it’s both.”

It’s the truth, Frankie thinks, smiling to herself as she reaches over to turn out the lamp on her bedside table. When the room is dark, she gets settled under the covers. She wills herself into someone solid and firm, someone even more trustworthy than she already is. A better-than-decent pick for second-to-last person on earth.


End file.
